


The Road to Stranglethorn

by Gileonnen



Category: Warcraft (2016)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Khadgar Getting Flung through the Air, Lothar Refusing to Talk about Trauma, M/M, The Gurubashi Wars, Trollish Architecture, arena battles, interspecies diplomacy, unlikely allies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 06:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: In the wake of the battle at the Dark Portal, Khadgar recognizes that Stormwind cannot continue fighting off the invasion alone. He persuades Lothar to seek unlikely allies to the south: the trolls of Stranglethorn. But Lothar has a long history of warfare in the jungle, and neither he nor the trolls have forgotten it.





	The Road to Stranglethorn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skitz_phenom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/gifts).



> The Warcraft movie has taken some liberties with the history of Azeroth to tell a cohesive story, and accordingly, so have I. Readers familiar with the lore may recognize the broad outlines of the Gurubashi Wars and the period surrounding the opening of the Dark Portal, but I've deliberately shied away from strict adherence to game and supplemental canon.

The sun's punishing heat baked through Lothar's chain shirt. Rancid sweat slid in fat drops down his brow, soaking his hair and making his eyes sting. The grit of the arena still hung on the air from the last match; what creature's blood stained the cracked earth, he couldn't say.

It would be his and Khadgar's next, if they failed.

Khadgar muttered something, but it was too low to hear over the shouting of the crowd.

"This was your idea, mage," Lothar said.

"I'm still not sure it was a bad one. If this is the only way to earn the trolls' respect, then we should welcome the challenge." Khadgar stood with his hands clasped on his staff, head bowed as though in prayer. He looked as haggard as Lothar felt, with brambles caught in the hem of his robe and a smear of dirt where he'd wiped his eyes, but his expression was tranquil as a windless sea. "Think of Azeroth."

"I'm too busy thinking of crocolisks."

"Optimistic of you. This jungle has a whole menagerie of other horrors." Khadgar's quick eyes scanned the ring, lighting for an instant on each barred gate. When he caught Lothar looking, he smiled. Lothar didn't find it terribly convincing. "We've had worse odds. Do you think it's too late to place a bet?"

The crowd roared, rising to their feet in one body, clapping and screaming their adulation. Both Lothar and Khadgar looked up, over the carved lip of the combat pit to the cavernous entryway.

The Skullsplitter chieftain strode to the platform at the arena's entrance. He was powerfully built, with one broken tusk pierced through with a hoop of gold. He wore a capelet of parrot feathers that flashed red and indigo in the sunlight, and his green hair spilled down his back in a cascade of braids. The troll swept his lanky arms wide, taking in the gathered pirates and criminals like a king addressing his subjects.

Slowly, the cheering crowd sat. An expectant silence fell over the ring as the chieftain began to speak. "Welcome," he said, "to the Gurubashi Arena! In this place, our ancestors tested their heroes in honorable combat. Much blood was spilled here to sate the Soulflayer, and still he thirsted! Many lives were spent, and still he hungered! And now, my friends, I ask: are you hungry?"

 _YES!_ Teeth flashed in the sunlight; fists pounded the bench seats.

"Are you _thirsty_?"

 _YES!_ screamed the crowd with a hundred gaping mouths.

The Skullsplitter gestured to Khadgar and Lothar, huddled in the center of the arena. His long fingers were heavy with rings. His eyes met Lothar's, and he gave a blade-bright grin.

"Then LET THERE BE BLOOD!"

The shouts of the crowd were almost loud enough to drown out the slow, steady clank of the machinery under the arena. In the darkness of one alcove, a monster rose from the pit beneath the sands. Lothar couldn't guess more than the shape of it—huge, hunched, so big that its shoulders scraped the roof of the alcove.

Then something scaled and shining threw itself against the gate with a crash that shook dust from the arena walls. Lothar caught a flash of hooked talons and rolling yellow eyes.

Lothar raised his blade, taking a step forward to put Khadgar behind him. "I think it's too late," he muttered, but the crowd's roar swallowed it up.

* * *

_One Week Ago_

* * *

"We don't need more allies. Especially not a pack of bloodthirsty, snake-worshipping murderers like the Stranglethorn trolls." Lothar shifted in his seat, clearly anxious to be done with this conversation. No doubt there was something very important that needed killing somewhere.

"I'm not saying we do," said Khadgar carefully. He gestured to the map of Azeroth, its hard-edged hexagons ranged in mountains and vales. "But the orcs have said in no uncertain terms that they plan to stay. Like it or not, the other peoples of Azeroth will have to choose a side sooner or later. Would you rather they chose ours, or the orcs'?"

"And how will you convince them to join our alliance?" Lothar rose to his feet. His hands closed into fists on the table. "I cut my teeth on troll spears in the Gurubashi Wars. Everyone else who led our army then is dead—Llane, Medivh, everyone. I'm the only leader Stormwind has left who fought in those days, and their hatred for me is as fresh today as it was twenty years ago. If you bring them a treaty, they'll spit on it for the pleasure of spiting me."

Khadgar gave Taria a pleading look, and she laid her hand on her brother's shoulder. "We aren't the only people who have suffered under the invasion," she said, low but urgent. "The trolls are only just south of Westfall and the Brightwood; if the orcs attacked our people, I can't imagine they left the trolls untouched. They may have common cause with us now as they've never had before."

"They'll ask for concessions," muttered Lothar, but he didn't shrug her off. "They'll take back every scrap of ground we won from them, if they don't ask for more—"

"Those scraps are already lost!" Khadgar snapped. "The Brightwood has burned! Raven Hill is empty, and Sunnyglade is in ashes. The forests are tainted with fel magic, and I'll tell you this, Anduin Lothar—if we don't stop the invasion here and now, that taint will continue to spread. Don't be so eager to hold the south that you lose Elwynn Forest, too."

"I know!" Lothar slammed one gauntleted fist on the table, leaving a deep groove in the painted sea. "Is there no way I can turn without losing something?"

Taria's eyes met Khadgar's. Her lips drew tight, and worry lined her brow. _Say something,_ that look said.

She would have known the right thing to say, if there was a right thing. But if she wanted him to talk to her brother, then Khadgar would have to do his best.

 _It isn't that Lothar thinks I'm wrong. It's that he's afraid to dishonor his triumph with Llane and Medivh, as though a treaty will unmake their memory. This isn't strategy; this isn't even pride. It's grief._ Khadgar's gaze fell upon the map spread out before them, the Redridge Mountains rolling down to the low hills of Elwynn Forest and then at last to Northern Stranglethorn. Perhaps Lothar and Llane had stood at this very table two decades ago, learning together to read the battlefields of their first campaign.

Little wonder he was so unwilling to let go.

Khadgar's knuckles grazed the tile that held Stormwind, then he lifted it from the table and pressed it into Lothar's hand. "Not everything is lost," he said, folding Lothar's fingers around it. "We have to fight for what remains."

Lothar studied the tile. His eyes traced the painted walls, the gaily colored rooftops and the palace in which they stood. What he saw there, Khadgar couldn't say—perhaps he was mapping its defenses and strongholds, or perhaps he was remembering how many people's lives were compassed in this humble block of wood.

At last, Lothar breathed in through his nose, then returned the tile to its place with surprising gentleness. "All right, mage," he said. "Let's hear your foolish idea."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence."

Although his body was still bowstring-tense, Lothar gave a lopsided smile. "I didn't say I minded foolish."

Khadgar grinned back. "Then you're going to love this plan. I'll need a small party of five to twenty ..."

As he explained his strategy, Lothar leaned against the edge of the table and watched him with an inscrutable expression. When he'd finished, Lothar said only, "I'll consider it. Meet me again tomorrow morning, and you'll have my answer. My sister and I have things to discuss."

A dismissal, but not a refusal. To Khadgar, that sounded like progress.

* * *

Khadgar's jaw dropped. He shook his head once as though to clear it. "When I said my plan was foolish, I didn't expect you to take that as a challenge."

Shrugging, Lothar tilted his flagon back and found it empty. A thin red line of wine tracked over the lip of the cup and fell, acrid, on his tongue. "Your plan wouldn't work. Twenty men or three hundred; to the Gurubashi, any force from Stormwind would look like an invasion force. This way is better."

"Weren't you just telling me how much the Bloodscalps wanted your head on a platter? Please explain why you suddenly think it's a good idea to travel into troll territory alone!" Khadgar looked from Lothar to the stout, sensibly-dressed dwarven matron seated at his side. Elga Bronzeblossom raised her brows, but didn't comment. Unlike Taria, she was immune to such unspoken pleas.

"I won't be alone," said Lothar. "I'll be with you."

"Flattering as that is—and I'm sure your friend is a very capable guide—I don't think I need to point out the utter lunacy of strolling into a troll encampment with the most wanted man in all of Stranglethorn."

For the first time, Elga spoke. Her voice was deep and mellifluous, touched with the Loch Modan burr. Although she did not raise her voice, Khadgar immediately sat up straighter and settled his hands in his lap. "I trade jewels with the folk in Stranglethorn. They know me there. A few of them even like me. Even if they won't listen to Lord Anduin Lothar, they might lend an ear to me."

"If it goes wrong, you can create a portal back to Stormwind," said Lothar. "We'd be gone before the fight began."

"It takes _time_ to create a portal. The slightest interruption would break the spell—you'd have to keep them off my back for at least ten seconds."

"Do you doubt that I can?"

"It would be easier with twenty."

 _But harder to keep them all alive._ Lothar itched to pour himself another drink, but the early-morning sun slanted through the high arched windows, and he needed his wits about him today. "Two men are all I'm willing to commit to this gamble of yours."

"Then stay here, and I'll go with the merchants. I can handle myself."

Despite the gravity of the moment, Lothar snorted. "Didn't you just say that you needed twenty adventurers to watch your back?"

"The people need you," said Khadgar, leaning over the table. His eyes were dark and intent; one thumb traced the Kirin Tor brand through the fabric of his sleeve. Lothar wasn't sure he knew he was doing it. "They've just lost their king. They're frightened, and they need guidance. You're the only hero they have left. Are you really willing to risk that?"

And there it was—the question that Lothar could not permit himself to ask. He had locked it away with Llane's death, and he would not unbar that door today.

He rose from the table, circling around to Khadgar and leaning in close. Khadgar swallowed, but did not pull away. "You're also one of Azeroth's heroes, my friend. If you plan to risk your life, I trust no one more than myself to keep you safe. But if the trolls are the allies you hope they'll be, it's worth the hazard of two heroes."

"I really don't follow your arithmetic," groused Khadgar. "But it's clear you've decided to do this alone, which I suppose is better than not wanting to do it at all." Turning to Elga, he asked, "I don't suppose you have any trained fighters or hedge-wizards in your caravan?"

"Just myself and an old knock-kneed nag," she answered. "But I've been traveling this route since before the wars, and no troll's laid so much as a finger on me for the last twenty. If anyone can get you through the jungle, it's Elga Bronzeblossom."

"Does your sister know you're planning to do this?" Khadgar asked, with the defeated air of a gambler playing his last card.

Lothar grinned down at him. "She was the one who recommended Elga."

* * *

The party set out through the gates of Stormwind before noon, with Lothar and Khadgar riding on the back of Elga's wagon in common adventurers' gear. The wagon was solidly built, painted blue with red trim and _Bronzeblossom's Fine Gems and Jewelcrafting_ on the side in weathered runes. A few deep gouges in the woodwork suggested past brushes with well-armed foes, but the scars had long since been sanded down and painted over. The horse proved to be an even-tempered Alterac Valley mare who didn't so much as flick an ear at the bustle of Goldshire.

Although Elga seemed likewise unruffled, she carried a dwarven blunderbuss across her lap and drove the wagon one-handed. If she wasn't looking for trouble, she seemed ready to meet it if it found her.

All in all, Khadgar supposed they could do worse.

He reached into his pack and pulled out a book on portals that he'd salvaged from Medivh's library. The red leather cover was inset with ancient runes in a shining golden circle; the vellum pages were soft beneath his fingertips. As Khadgar leafed through the book, the letters seemed to shift and spiral across the page, passing over and through each other as though they were made of vapor. The ancient language of magic slid fluidly into his mother-tongue, then to something distant and alien—and in every margin, Medivh's dark annotations lay black against the book's slowly reddening ink.

"Sometimes, you remind me of him."

Startled, Khadgar closed the book with a thump. "Sorry?"

"Medivh." Lothar braced a heel on the tail board of the wagon and rested a hand on his knee. "When we were younger, he seemed ... brilliant. His curiosity always got him into trouble, but that never kept him from chasing secrets. As though he saw far beyond his years, and wanted to grasp his fate in both hands."

Khadgar remembered the Guardian of Tirisfal as he had been in his last days: exhausted, grim, sunken eyes shining with fel light. _That man was not the Medivh that Lothar remembers,_ he told himself. _That's not the man I remind him of._ Even so, a chill crept down his spine. "I hadn't realized that the two of you were so close."

"Things changed when he became the Guardian. Even as king, Llane was a man of the people—you could talk to him. But Medivh ..." Lothar watched the towering trees of Elwynn Forest pass them by. The shadow of the wagon's overhang cut across his mouth, casting most of his face into darkness. His pale eyes seemed fixed on a long-lost time.

When it became clear that Lothar would not speak again, Khadgar filled the silence. "Medivh found himself alone on a dark path, and he met something there that was stronger than he was."

"And what did he meet, mage? The fel? That orc Gul'dan?"

"Temptation," Khadgar answered. "He saw a power that seemed to cost nothing, except himself. And he chose to pay that price."

Lothar's smile was tight; his teeth gleamed in the sunlight. "And you? Will I find one day that you met temptation on a dark path, and bargained yourself away to it?"

"I'm not very well going to say _yes_ to that," said Khadgar. "But I may find myself on such a road one day. Many students of the arcane eventually do. And if I do, I'll remember what you said this morning."

"Mm? What's that?"

Khadgar grinned. "I won't be alone. I'll be with you."

* * *

They looped east through Westfall, past the wreckage of looted houses and burned windmills. The wheat fields, so recently kindled, were only now beginning to grow green again. "Sorry to take you the long way around. There used to be a ferry, but—" Elga began.

"I remember," said Lothar. He tried to make his voice gentle; his anger would not help them today.

"Hm," said Elga, and let it go.

Then over the bridge to the Brightwood, dim in the gathering darkness. They stopped for the night in the ruins of Raven Hill, sitting on the old inn's steps and watching fog curl around the dark streetlamps. Even to Lothar's senses, there was something palpably wrong in the air—some oily quality to the fog that made his skin itch. "Do you feel that?" he asked Khadgar, who sat with Medivh's book open across his lap again and a ball of faint light drifting over his fingertips.

This time, Khadgar didn't startle. "It's the fel," he said. His words echoed strangely through the gaping doorway behind them, resounding from every wall of the empty common room. "It lingers wherever it touches, twisting the land and the people."

Many years ago, Lothar had ridden the Brightwood with Taria and Llane, hunting to the music of horn and hound. He remembered the way the light had filtered through the high green leaves as though through a cathedral's windows.

Then he locked that memory away. "Tell me what will happen to this place."

"I can't know for certain," said Khadgar quietly. "It may decay. The trees may rot from the inside, or they may be blighted—thick, monstrous trunks covered in pustules. Creatures may be changed; they may go mad, or grow to unnatural size, or die in heaps where the fel energy is strongest. But whatever happens, the Brightwood will be changed."

Lothar closed his eyes. Again, he saw Llane laughing in the warm green-golden light. "Gul'dan's lackeys have much to answer for."

Khadgar's hand found his and gripped it. "The Moonglade druids might be able to cleanse this forest, if we can clear out Gul'dan's influence. All isn't lost, Lothar."

A shadow fell over them, and both of them looked up and back into the common room. "If you lads are done flirting," announced Elga, "I've got a nice onion soup on the fire. Hurry, or I'll eat it all up."

They righted one of the overturned tables and drank soup from the inn's dented steel mugs. Afterward, Elga went back to her wagon to sleep.

When Khadgar and Lothar climbed the stairs to the sleeping quarters, they soon saw why she'd left those rooms alone. Closing away the dead and their ruined beds, they retreated to a nearby barn to bed down in the hay. Those wrecked faces lingered in Lothar's mind, though, and he lay awake a long time listening to the furtive rustling of field mice. _You could have saved those people,_ he told himself. _If you'd been a better commander, you might have saved them._ A hundred campaigns played out behind his eyes, troops diverted and reinforced, supply lines shored up wherever they broke. He tallied casualties, and always there were too many.

When sleep claimed Lothar at last, Khadgar was still awake up in the loft, reading by magelight.

The morning dawned grim and misty. The three of them broke their fast with bread and the last brown-gravy remnants of the onion soup. Even Elga looked bleary-eyed; there was straw stuck in Khadgar's robes and Lothar's hair. They struck out as soon as they'd eaten, and watched the fog swallow up Raven Hill.

Slowly, the forest changed. Mixed in with the familiar stout boles of the Brightwood's trees, Lothar began to see tall, straight trunks that ended in a domed canopy of leaves. Around their roots grew bright-leafed plants with their undersides ribbed in patterns like raptor scales. Here the land grew hilly, with the road threading a narrow path between steep rises. In a few places, the bare crowns of rocky ridges rose above the trees.

Lothar knew this place. He had ridden this road at the head of a column, his armor gleaming like a mirror in the shifting light. He knew the next valley, with its nodding palms and its flowers swarming with wasps; he could almost taste the sweet fruits of the vale.

Then they crested the rise, and the taste of fruit turned to ash on Lothar's tongue.

The trees here had been cut away, and the stumps burned to the ground. There had once been a trollish ruin at the edge of the vale, some archway with a skull on the keystone, but the arch lay wrecked beside a middens heap.

Lothar swung down from the cart to step into the ruined vale. He drew his sword, but any threat here was long since gone. The wagon ruts had been many times washed with rain, and the middens heap had spread in a foul alluvial flow. He found abandoned tent pegs, pieces of armor too broken to repair, a single copper coin stamped with a symbol that he didn't recognize. "This was an orcish camp," he said as he made his way back to the wagon. "They've been here."

Khadgar's eyes gleamed with blue light. He raised a hand, palm up, and whispered a few words in a tongue harsher than the language of magic.

A green flame blossomed in his hand, then winked out. "It's here, too," he said heavily. Lothar didn't have to ask what he meant.

Suddenly, there was a whistling sound, and an arrow embedded itself in the dirt between Lothar's feet.

"Nobody move," said an unfamiliar voice. Glancing up, Lothar saw a single troll archer unpeel herself from a cluster of rocks. She had another arrow already nocked, but she kept it pointed toward the ground. "You only get a warning shot because I know this wagon. If you don't explain yourselves, I'm willing to ignore the wagon. Start talking."

Khadgar held up his hands and dropped down from the wagon's tail board. "We—"

"Not you. I see your stick and your green fire and that smug look on your face. You keep your mouth closed."

Khadgar's mouth snapped shut. Lothar sheathed his sword and stepped closer, raising his hands. "We've come to parley," he said. "Do you know the people who did this?"

"Thought it might've been you," said the troll.

"Those people are our enemies. A war-loving people from another world who call themselves orcs. They came through a Dark Portal and brought an evil magic with them. The portal has fallen, but that evil magic is still here, in Azeroth."

"A pretty story," the troll scoffed. "Prove it."

Before Lothar could stop him, Khadgar raised his staff and whispered a single word. The troll snarled; her bow came up and bent—then the light from Khadgar's staff resolved into an image of Gul'dan, hunched and withered and dripping with skulls. He cradled a ball of fel energy in both hands, and fel light shone from his eyes and veins.

The troll lowered her bow again. Something shifted in her expression; she recognized something in that image, and it terrified her.

Lothar gestured to the ground. "These wheel tracks tell me they're in Stranglethorn right now. They might be taking your people _right now_ to build another portal back to their own world. Are you willing to take that chance?"

"I vouch for these two," said Elga, stepping down from the wagon. "I think the trolls ought to at least hear what they have to say."

The troll jerked her head, making her high red topknot sway. Four more trolls emerged from the surrounding landscape, most armed with spears, one leading a blue-striped raptor. "Go," she said to the one with the raptor. "Tell the priestess what this one told me. Tell her Uzoma sent you. If you can get those thick-skulled Bloodscalps and Skullsplitters to listen, bend their ears, but at least tell the priestess. She needs to hear this."

The rider saluted and mounted up, then sped away into the hills. Lothar and Khadgar seated themselves again, this time on the box with Elga, and the rest of the trolls formed an escort around the wagon.

As Elga urged the mare onward, Uzoma leaned in to Lothar. "My village burned while I away," she said, and in her voice was a grief and rage that Lothar knew all too well. "I lost them all. Wife. Sister. My sister's boys, still too small to walk. We found one survivor in the ruins nearby, this close to death." She held up her fingers, so close together that Lothar could see no gap between them. "And you know what he told me, human? His last words were, 'They took the children. Those short-tusked monsters, they took them all.'"

"I am sorry for your loss," said Lothar.

"Don't be sorry," she snapped. "Make them pay."

* * *

They crossed half a dozen swaying bridges, each one only barely wide enough to fit the cart. The horse never balked, but Khadgar tried not to think about the drop that awaited them if a single wheel should slip over the edge and overbalance them.

He distracted himself in examining the craftsmanship of the bridge: built upon an ancient sensibility, to be sure, but the boards were barely weathered, and the rope creaked like something new. _In Stormwind, they say the trolls live in their empire's ruins,_ he thought as they passed beneath an arch flanked by jade statues of jaguars. Vines twined around their paws, and birds nested between their teeth. _But so do we all. We build our lives on the wreckage of kingdoms long gone, and now and then, we find a secret buried amid the foundations._

Lothar said nothing as they rolled ever deeper into Stranglethorn, but he watched the trolls escorting them without seeming to blink. His face was set in a hard expression.

Uzoma's story had touched an unhealed wound, and Lothar would not let the trolls see it bleed.

The sensation of late-evening sunlight on his face broke Khadgar from his meditations. He looked up abruptly and found that they were leaving the forest's shadow. Ahead, across one final bridge, lay what might have been a waystation or a small village—a cluster of open-air buildings thatched with grass or palm, one of them an elaborate structure of irregular levels and spiraling stairs.

As they drew closer, Khadgar realized that the white knobs decorating the entryway were skulls. Dread chilled his blood, but when he looked again, he realized that the teeth were far too sharp to be a human's.

Uzoma paused where the road widened, gesturing the wagon on. "We're here."

Khadgar leaned down to Elga and whispered, "Where is 'here'?"

"Bambala," she answered in a low voice. "A trading post, you might say. But you see that old building behind it?" She glanced up toward a shallow step pyramid going green with moss. Khadgar nodded his understanding. "That's a temple to their old snake god."

"The Blood God," muttered Lothar.

"Different god," said Elga. "The Blood God's the one with wings. This one is only a snake."

Uzoma huffed briefly in irritation, but she said only, "They'll be waiting for you at the top, humans. I hope they like what you have to say."

This was the opportunity that Khadgar had fought for—the chance to have a conversation that might alter the fates of two peoples. _These trolls might one day be your allies,_ he told himself. _See what's admirable in them. See what they can teach you._

"Go on, lads," Elga said, giving Khadgar a light push. "This is as far as I can take you."

Khadgar slid down from the wagon and straightened, giving his staff an experimental twirl. The trolls tightened their grips on their weapons, but didn't raise them. _Confident,_ he thought. _Absolutely certain that they can handle us, if it comes to a fight._ Glancing at Lothar to be sure he was following, Khadgar made his way toward the two-story building.

As they stepped inside, the breeze followed them, cooling Khadgar's sweat-soaked neck and carrying the scent of unfamiliar flowers. Khadgar saw that much of the dark wood had been left unfinished; it felt rough and sturdy under his bootsoles. The citizens of Bambala had painted the stairs and railings with white and red, clearly outlining the edges. _Practical architecture._

At the top of the stair, two trolls were waiting. One, a woman, knelt on a woven grass rug. She wore a red rectangular mask over her eyes and a plume of red and blue feathers on her head; her blue hair was elaborately braided and worked with wooden beads. Beside her stood a tall, rangy man with one broken tusk and vines tattooed across his bare shoulders. His hair was the deep bluish green of seawater seen from below. A thick scar stood out on his left cheekbone. 

"Your kind aren't welcome here, Stormwind," he said, stepping forward. "But be welcome all the same. My name is Kilani. Chief of the Skullsplitters."

"I thank you for your hospitality, Chief Kilani," said Khadgar. "I know your people have good reason to hate mine. But our people—"

"You can lay your arguments when the introductions are over," said Kilani. Khadgar told himself that the smile only looked menacing because of the tusks. "My friend is Priestess Arewa. She speaks for the _loa_ here."

"The spirits, you'd call them," said Arewa. "And what are your names?"

"Khadgar. Formerly of the Kirin Tor." Behind her mask, the priestess's eyes widened, which suggested she knew what that meant.

"And your friend," said Kilani, "is General Anduin Lothar, who gave me this scar twenty years ago."

No one dared to breathe. Magic flared in Khadgar's veins; he knew that its light must be shining through his eyes and the thin skin of his hands. Lothar reached for his sheathed sword as the priestess rocked back on her heels. A wind stirred the thatch with a rustle loud as a thunderclap.

Kilani raised his hands, showing that they were empty. "I know who you are, and still I bid you be welcome," said Kilani. "If you'd come to me with an army at your back, we might be trading blows again, but a general of Stormwind doesn't come into Stranglethorn alone unless there's something he wants more than his life. Sit down, Lothar and Khadgar. Tell me what brings you to my jungle."

"You were right," muttered Khadgar as they took their seats.

"You sound surprised."

"Slightly, yes."

When everyone else was seated, Kilani sank down onto a woven mat and reached for a cup. He took a long drink, then passed the cup to Khadgar.

It smelled sweet and alcoholic. He put the cup to his lips and tasted lime and some richer, earthier fruit. "Chief Kilani, we've seen the mark of an invasion in your land. Trees cut down and armies camping in the clearings. Smoke rising toward the sky in pillars. And if that wasn't suffering enough, a twisted magic called the fel has warped your trees and flowers and maddened the animals in your forests. You've seen it. I know you have."

"The Darkspear tribe and the Bloodscalps have seen it," Arewa said; it sounded more like a correction than an agreement. "The Skullsplitters will soon, I think."

"Always these dire predictions," said Kilani, a wry and weary note in his voice. "But if Arewa thinks there's a danger, I believe her."

"Some are already saying we need Hakkar," she said grimly. "I've heard prayers in the temple that I hoped would never be spoken again. People with green fire in their eyes, asking the Blood God whether he's listening."

Lothar and Khadgar exchanged a look. _If we can't make allies of the trolls, they may make terrifying enemies,_ Khadgar thought, and Lothar's expression said his thoughts were running along the same lines.

Lothar swayed up to his knees, leaning in close to Kilani. "Stormwind's king fell at the Dark Portal, with an orc's blade in his throat," he said. His voice was low but intent, and his piercing eyes never wavered. "Without allies, both of our peoples will fall. The orcs are fearsome warriors—but there's still a chance for us to smash them between us, hammer and anvil."

"Or for us to make an alliance with them," said Arewa. She sat back to pour herself a cup of that sour-sweet liquor. "If these orcs are as strong as you say, why should we choose an alliance with you? We remember the wars, Stormwind. Kilani isn't the only troll you left with scars. Or worse."

"Because the fel energy they bring with them will devour your world and not be sated," said Khadgar. "Even good men, brave men, have been swayed by its power, and they've used it to destroy everything they loved. And the fel makes no distinction between good men and bad men, orc and human and troll. There's still a chance we can stop its spread, if we act now. If we act together."

"Arewa is right," said Kilani. Lothar's face clouded with anger, but Kilani pushed on as though he hadn't seen. "She is _right_ ," he said again, "when she says we remember the wars. Say I go back to the Skullsplitters and tell them that General Anduin Lothar came and drank wine with me. Maybe I tell them we hammered out a treaty. What do you think they'd say to me, Stormwind?"

"They'd ask how much you paid him to make mercenaries of his people," said Arewa.

"And then there'd be a new chief of the Skullsplitters." Kilani held out a hand, and Khadgar put the cup in it. He drank. "We need another way."

By now the sun had nearly set. Throughout Bambala, torches and lamps had begun to gleam like stars, and Khadgar even glimpsed the stout glass-and-iron lanterns of Elga's wagon somewhere below. Arewa reached up to touch a hanging lamp, and blue flame rose from her fingers to light the wick.

"Let me speak to them," said Lothar. "All of them. I don't ask your people's forgiveness—"

"And you won't have it," said Arewa.

"—but we need each other's strength."

The trolls put their heads together, tilting their faces comfortably to prevent their tusks from clashing. They whispered in their own language, every now and then raising their hands from their laps in abortive gestures. They did not seem angry, but their voices were ardent and fierce.

After they'd finished speaking, Kilani looked away for a long moment, out to the darkening jungle. The canopy's leaves were faintly silvered with light from the sickle moon, and nightbirds gave queer, bubbling cries. Kilani's gaze seemed to be fixed on something still more distant, invisible in the darkness. Then he gave a great, shuddering shrug and looked from Khadgar to Lothar again.

Khadgar leaned in, expectant.

At last, Kilani spoke. "The last time the trolls came together to face a great enemy, you were that enemy. The fel might be the next one. But the Skullsplitter tribe hasn't seen it yet. No one south of old Zul'Gurub has seen it. The people are divided now. Not sure whether to take their chances with you, with the orcs—or with Hakkar. Or just vanish deeper into Stranglethorn and let the jungle eat anyone who follows. So if you want to change their minds, they have to see that you're worthy. All of them, not just one village or one tribe."

"How do we prove ourselves?" Khadgar asked.

Arewa grinned. All of her teeth were sharp. "Trial by blood," she answered.

Kilani nodded. "The Arena."

* * *

"I think that went rather well."

Lothar's blade came down, and vines parted like silk beneath its keen edge. "Did you _listen_ to them? Blood worshippers in their ranks—" another sweeping slice "—scheming against their own chieftains—" the sword got stuck in a sapling, and he had to pause to wrench it free "—all while the trolls watch people murder each other in the arena. And _these_ are the allies you want?"

Khadgar transferred a mote of magelight from his palm to the tip of his staff. "I do want to point out that we left the camp specifically so that you could hack at things with your sword."

"Things," said Lothar. "Not people." He swung his blade again, hacking through a regiment of ferns. They fell in jagged ranks to the jungle floor.

"There are people here who need to be protected."

A cloven vine wept sap in a steady stream. "Then let them protect their own. Take us back to Stormwind and let Stranglethorn devour them all. Let the trolls and orcs tear each other apart; they're as bad as each other. I've had enough of being stabbed in the back."

"Are you really angry about what the trolls said, or is this about Llane? Is this about Garona?" Khadgar's hand fell on Lothar's shoulder. He shuddered under it; he itched to keep slicing away at the jungle until he'd carved a path to the sea.

He remembered his sister's dagger glittering in Llane's neck, and a red torrent of rage welled in his throat. He tasted bile.

Lothar wiped his blade clean and sheathed it. "And what if it is? Garona used us. Llane put his faith in her, and she betrayed him." _She betrayed me._

"She did," said Khadgar. "And nothing any of us does will bring him back. I know how that hurts—"

"You don't know." Throwing off Khadgar's hand, Lothar shoved deeper into the jungle. Thorns caught at his clothes, but he paid them no mind. A part of him longed to stumble onto some scavenging raptor or sleeping crocolisk; there was something in him emptier than wrath, and he longed to sate it.

Then the jungle parted, and he found himself at the edge of a steep cliff. Below, a stream reflected the moonlight. In the distance, a bridge spanned the chasm like a single thread of spiderweb, but Lothar could see no easy way to reach it.

There was nowhere to go.

Khadgar slowed to a stop at his side. "You're right," he said after a brief silence. The moonlight cast his eyes into deep shadow. "I don't understand what you've lost. And I don't understand what you see when you look at Stranglethorn. I wasn't here. I didn't see what you saw. I can't know. But I do want to understand."

Lothar studied Khadgar's face, searching for pity or calculation. In his eyes, there was only that familiar, piercing curiosity that reminded Lothar so much of Medivh—but in Khadgar, it was touched with a compassion that he was coming to love.

Lothar sighed. He lowered himself to the ground and sat, legs dangling over the edge of the cliff and sword across his lap. Khadgar set down his staff and came to join him. "You think the priestess's mad scheme will work," said Lothar, when he could no longer bear the silence.

"I think it's at least as good as any other option. The arena sounds like a place where the trolls can put aside tribal conflicts and gather for sport."

"To kill each other."

"The priestess said that not every fight was a battle to the death. There are honorable duels there, too. Friends testing their skill together. This could end badly, I agree, but we always knew that was a possibility. Is the arena really a worse place to die than anywhere else in Stranglethorn?"

"I don't want to watch you die," said Lothar, and he leaned in to kiss Khadgar's lips.

For a frozen moment, the world seemed to turn around them as they hung suspended on the cliff's edge. Then Khadgar's palm lighted along Lothar's jaw, warm and sure. He drew in a ragged breath, and his lips parted to welcome Lothar in.

When at last they broke, Lothar found himself smiling. "You kiss as though you've only read about it in books," he said.

"It's flattering that you think I've read about it in books." Khadgar pressed their brows together. "Neither of us is going to die. I promise you."

Lothar caught Khadgar's hand against his cheek. "If things look bad, you summon a portal to Stormwind."

"And close it behind us."

"I've watched too many die because I trusted blindly," said Lothar. "You and my sister are the last people I have left. If I knew a way to save you, and let you walk into a trap—"

"It wasn't your fault," Khadgar said. His voice was not gentle or soft; he said it as though it was the unadorned truth. "None of what happened was your fault."

Lothar swallowed. There was a knot in his throat that he could not undo. "Let's go back to camp," he said. "There's a fight coming, and we'll need to be ready."

* * *

Sweat drenched Lothar's brow. He stood at the center of the arena, Khadgar behind him, waiting for the slatted doors to rise and free a monster of scales and flashing talons.

The creature thrashed at the door, roaring for their skins—but still the door stayed shut. The crowd chanted _Blood! Blood! Blood!_ until the chants faded into a confused, mutinous murmur.

At the entry to the arena, old Kilani gave a loud, sharp laugh that sliced easily through the hubbub. "Pay no heed to that raptor, Stormwind!" he crowed. "It would hardly whet your appetites. Today, you'll test yourselves against a _real_ challenger!"

He held his hand out for one of his warriors' spears, then grasped it in both hands and vaulted into the arena. Sand billowed around his bare feet; the crowd's voices became a single, deafening scream. They swelled to the very edge of the pit, shouting, pounding the ancient stones, throwing earrings and flowers and streamers at their chieftain's feet. He raised his arms and drank in their praise, and his eyes gleamed with naked pleasure.

The crowd loved their mad warrior-king, but Lothar remembered a more politic Kilani, who had gazed into the darkness with a strategist's eye. _He wants to show his people that we can fight and then reconcile,_ Lothar realized as he shifted to square off against Kilani. _But he's gambling his own reputation on the chance of an alliance. If he loses to us, his people will not forget._

Kilani's long, powerful arms flexed, and then he struck—whip-quick, one decisive thrust at Lothar's gut. Lothar raised his blade to bat the spear away, but his blade cut through empty air; the feathered spearhead circled, probing, testing Lothar's defenses with short jabs and cuts. Lothar was the stronger of the two, but Kilani had the reach and the speed to control the fight. He wielded that heavy spear the way some duelists wielded a rapier, all speed and control, and he made Lothar dance to his tune.

Then Khadgar shouted something, and three bolts of arcane energy went screaming into Kilani's chest. That momentary distraction was all the opening Lothar needed; he caught the haft of Kilani's spear in one hand and pushed it aside, then came at Kilani with a heavy overhand blow.

The butt of the spear came up to crash against his temple, and he saw white. His sword sheared through the spear; he heard one end of it clatter to the ground.

Kilani spun the sharp end of the spear in his hand as though testing its weight. "Not bad, for an old man."

"I was about to say the same."

"This old man still has a few tricks." Laughing, Kilani raised his broken spear to the cloudless skies. For an instant, the high blue canopy seemed to peel back to reveal a star-shot blackness, a void scattered with blazing light.

"Starfall!" warned Khadgar. He threw up his hands and cast a shield of crackling violet energy above them just as those lights began to shriek down from the firmament. They burst against the barrier like fireworks and washed the arena in stark white light.

Half-blinded, Lothar charged again into the fray and found Kilani ready. He got in a lucky strike on the troll's corded forearm, but he paid for it with a searing slash across his cheek. They traded blows, parry and swift riposte, advance and retreat—dancing around and around one another as the sky poured down cascades of stars.

Too late, Lothar saw where their dance was leading them.

Kilani fell back to where Khadgar stood with his eyes fixed on the streaming skies. His long blue fingers gestured toward the parched sand of the arena, and from it burst a huge vine that coiled tightly around Khadgar's legs. The vine whipped through the charged air, yanking Khadgar off his feet and flinging him against the wall of the pit. He hit with a sick, heavy sound that made Lothar's heart lurch.

"You will regret that," he snarled, and he fell on Kilani like a whirlwind. Blade and spearhead struck sparks where they clashed. Stars seared his arms and burned Kilani's feather plumes. Kilani's grin faded; he gave ground, backing inexorably toward the grating where the raptor still cried for blood.

Then, abruptly, Kilani was gone. In his place stood a curious-looking white sheep with a little mane of green braids.

And there was Khadgar at Lothar's shoulder, staff extended toward the sheep. When Lothar gave him a look of consternation, Khadgar shrugged as though to say, _What else was I supposed to do?_

He looked dusty but whole. Smug as ever, damn him—and whole.

Lothar realized that the stars had stopped falling. He drew his first deep breath since the fight had begun, and he readied his blade. The spell would not last forever, and when Kilani regained his true shape, he would not hesitate to strike.

As the sheep swelled into a troll again, Lothar caught Kilani by the neck and forced him to the ground. He slammed the hilt of his sword against Kilani's hand to make him drop the broken spear, and Khadgar picked it up and flung it away. Lothar's blade came to rest against Kilani's throat.

Kilani looked up at Lothar. His eyes were unafraid. The scar across his cheekbone gleamed white in the sunlight.

 _Do you really want peace?_ Lothar asked himself. The sword felt so familiar in his hand. _Is there even a place for you in a peaceful world?_

The crowd's eyes were on them. Whatever choice he made, he could not unmake.

Slowly, he set his sword aside and climbed to his feet. He offered Kilani his hand, and Kilani took it and rose. Khadgar fell into place on Kilani's other side as though he had never imagined that this could end another way.

The three of them lifted their joined hands to the sky. The crowd stood hushed, unsure of whether they were witnessing a victory or a defeat—then in the front row, Uzoma and Elga Bronzeblossom began to clap, and the applause spread through the audience like a wave.

Lothar caught Khadgar's eye around Kilani's back, and Khadgar flashed him a quick, brilliant smile.

* * *

By moonlight, the Gurubashi Arena was a very different place—a dim, echoing round of ancient marble, haunted by the memory of battles long past. High overhead, patchwork canopies flapped gently in the breeze with a sound like leathery wings.

 _The ruins of empires,_ thought Khadgar as he took out his book. _An ominous place to build a foundation._

"I can't promise you a treaty," said Kilani. "We've planted a seed here, but even the wind can plant a seed. Now we have to see that it grows. If we get so much as a scavenging party from the north, if even one human kills one more troll, our peace may die on the vine."

"I understand." Lothar offered his hand, and after a fractional hesitation, Kilani clasped his wrist to shake. "No apology can change what happened in the war. But for this—" and his gaze flicked over Kilani's scarred cheek "—and so much else, I'm sorry."

"It isn't enough to be sorry. You have to make things right between our people." Kilani didn't relax his grip.

Lothar looked as though he would argue, but he composed himself and nodded. "Speak to the Darkspears and the Bloodscalps. Tell them that we offer peace and protection."

"You don't offer peace," answered Kilani. "Only a different side of the war."

"Alliance against a common enemy. When Azeroth is safe, we'll see where we stand."

"We'll see. But for what it's worth, General, I hope we can stand together." Kilani released Lothar and stepped back, then sank into a crouch on the weathered marble. His fingernails hardened into claws, and his eyes grew wide and reflective; a lashing tail cut through the moonlit air. Then, in the shape of a great panther, Kilani padded out of the arena and into the darkness.

Khadgar let his book fall open. The letters gleamed, reflecting a faint, silvery light. He let those letters shape the wordless magic within him, let them speak through his bones, until every nerve and sinew sang with power.

The world parted like a veil, and behind it lay the familiar towers of Stormwind. High above the city, the clock struck nine, and the peal of the bells echoed soft but clear from the arena walls.

Khadgar turned to look at Lothar. "Ready to go home?" he asked.

Lothar didn't answer at first. He was still looking out into the jungle beyond the archway, his gaze far away. Something like sadness drew his eyes tight, and Khadgar could not say what it was—grief, regret, or the weight of twenty years of untouched memories.

"I'm with you," said Khadgar softly. It seemed a very small thing to say, against whatever shadows lurked in Lothar's thoughts, but it needed to be said.

Whatever Lothar saw out there, he pulled himself away from it and smiled. An unfamiliar fondness touched his eyes. "Let's go, then," he said, and stepped through the gateway.


End file.
